


Training Days

by rei_c



Series: Cannibalism Aside (Samn) [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dean Winchester is Obsessed with Sam Winchester, Demon Summoning, Don't Judge Me, Food Issues, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Food is People, Incest, Jealous Dean, Kidnapping, Knives, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Nudity, Possessive Dean, Sam Winchester is a Little Shit, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sigils, Summoning Circles, Teaching, Teasing, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:59:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds something interesting and Dean's more than intrigued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Training Days

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I know the plural collective noun for demons is 'legion' but I think that's really boring so I'm putting forth 'tangle' as the replacement. (My second-place suggestion is 'muddle.')

Dean's driving down a back-country Idaho road, barely two lanes, asphalt rough under the tires, when Sam says, _Dean? I've found something -- interesting._

Sam's version of interesting could mean anything from a new kink to explore to an ingenious way to repurpose kitchen utensils to the location of a dozen warded curse boxes ready for them to pick up and use as they see fit. Dean grins at the thought, can't help it; the last few caches of dangerous trinkets they liberated gave them laughs for weeks. Sam's been looking at one of the books they picked up from the last tangle of demons they iced, though, and the excerpts Sam's read to Dean have been -- interesting would be an understatement. 

_Don't leave me in suspense, Sam, come on_ , Dean says. _Or am I gonna need to pull over for this_? 

_Might wanna_ , Sam says, wicked grin curving up the edges of his lips, still kiss-bruised and swollen from this morning. 

Dean licks his lips, is already turning the Impala to the side of the road, putting on his hazard lights even though they haven't seen another car on this road since they turned onto it two hours ago. _Okay, tell me_ , he says, watches Sam. 

Sam points at a spot on the page, says, _We learned about demonic ranks a long time ago, right_? Dean raises an eyebrow; that was years ago, something they've probably forgotten more about than most people ever know. _And we know how to summon them. We know a few true names, how to banish them, how to exorcise them, how to kill them. What if I told you that we could summon a demon known as hell's best and bloodiest torturer_? 

_I'd say we should find a place and get to work on a sigil_ , Dean replies, instantly. _Fuck, Sammy, think of what it could teach us_.

The idea of it -- a demon renowned among demons, forced to answer their summons and obey their commands, pressed into teaching them ways to hurt even the darkest and deadliest supernatural creatures -- has Dean hard in his jeans in what feels like an instant. 

Sam shifts the book and reaches over, puts one hand right over the bulge in Dean's jeans and squeezes enough to get Dean's attention back, tear him from thoughts of what bloody suggestions the demon might have, might be willing to share. 

_We'd have to have something to offer in trade_ , Sam points out, ever the voice of reason. _And we'd have to find somewhere safe to work long-term if we don't want to have to keep re-doing the summoning sigils._

_There's that place in Mississippi_ , Dean says, lost in thought, mind already whirling through the safe-houses they have scattered across the country. _We haven't been there in a while and it was set pretty far back in the woods. Not a lot of people around, though. We'd have to go, I dunno, to Jackson or Memphis._

Sam hums. _What about one of the cabins in the northeast_? he asks. _No cities that close but we could stock up in Boston or Albany, bring what we need with us at the beginning._

Dean nods, slow. _That could work, too. We're already heading east, we have time before we need to make a decision._ He blinks, shakes his head to clear his mind, and looks at his little brother. Sam's stroking the book, two fingertips gliding down the tanned and bound human skin, and staring off into the distance. _What_? Dean asks. 

_Maybe we summon this demon for you_ , Sam says, turning to look at Dean. _And a different one for me. We've been saying for a while that I need someone to teach me what to do with all of this power; this might be the perfect time. We could hole up for a while, I dunno, as long as it takes._

_Sam_ , Dean says, grinning, _are you suggesting we take a vacation_? 

Sam laughs, says, _Think of it more like a workshop retreat. But yeah, I guess I am. There aren't any omens big enough to point out another tangle so this would be the perfect time, give 'em time to group up again. What d'you think_?

Dean leans over, gives Sam a messy kiss, and says, _I think it sounds like a great plan_ , and pauses before adding, _We should stock up on lube_.

The echo of Sam's laughter rings through the Impala for hours. 

\--

They end up in the north-central pine forests of Mississippi six days later. Dean's listened to nothing but Delta blues since they decided to head south rather than north and every time there's a reference to a demon -- a lot, in these songs -- Dean makes a joke, Sam rolls his eyes, Dean punches his brother, Sam does something to make Dean forget anger and feel nothing but lust, Dean pulls over, they fuck. 

_Easy three-day drive_ , Sam teases, as they're unloading their stuff from the trunk and backseat into the cabin, set far enough and deep enough into the woods that no one will even know they're here, just the way they like it. _And it took you almost a week_.

Dean scoffs, grabbing the paper bags filled with booze; sometimes he really hates that there are still dry counties in this country, it seems positively un-American. _Not my fault_ , he says. _All you, with your -- your arms and neck and legs and that thing you do with your hips._

Sam snickers, tosses one of the sedated women from the backseat over his shoulder. Her hair almost brushes the ground as Sam heads for the cabin. Dean thinks there's something kind of poetic about that, or he would if he thought about shit like that. _My arms_? he calls out over his shoulder. _There's something irresistibly sexy about my fucking arms_? 

_About your whole fucking face_ , Dean mutters. He follows Sam into the cabin, drops off the beer and liquor by the door, waits until Sam's dumped specimen number one on the couch and is coming back. There's a swing to Sam's hips that Dean raises an eyebrow at and he sighs, gestures at Sam. _See? There. You're doing it again_.

_Not doing anything right now, big brother_ , Sam says. He makes as if to brush past Dean, go back outside and keep unloading the car, but Dean grabs Sam by the shirt, slams him against the wall and takes his mouth. Jesus. They've been fucking like newlyweds for over a decade now and Dean will never not get hard at the sight of his brother, will never not want to get his hands all over Sam when Sam rips his mouth away, says, _Fuck, Dean, come on, we gotta unpack_ , and will never be able to resist the sight of Sam's neck, that long, tanned column of flesh. Dean sucks over the pulse point then bites, sinks his teeth in to draw blood, sucks just a little because nothing is guaranteed to get Sam to throw off logic and reason like Dean drinking him down. 

Sam whines, a high noise in the back of his throat, and his hands cling to Dean's hips, dig in and leave their own claims on Dean's skin. _Should wait_ , Sam pants, as Dean starts to nibble on the two- and three-day-old bruises already scattered over Sam's neck and shoulders. _Should get everything out of the car, get everything settled before we --_ fuck _, Dean, we have to._

_Don't gotta do nothin'_ , Dean says, breathing the words into Sam's ear, interrupting Sam mid-thought by finally getting his hand down Sam's jeans, right next to skin, stroking the length of Sam's dick. _We're on vacation, sweetheart, remember? Gotta enjoy our downtime_.

_Prep first, then -- shit, you -- Dean, oh god -- then downtime_ , Sam says, head thrown back, one foot curled around Dean's ankle, his own hands working Dean's jeans open, pushing them down. 

Dean snickers, laughs right up on Sam's skin, and says, _Oh, we'll prep first_. It's a fifty-fifty chance whether Sam's gonna punch him for that or give up and Dean's never sure what Sam will choose on any given day. _But I bet you're still pretty open from last night. Prep shouldn't take long_.

Sam opens his eyes and Dean nearly loses his breath at the sight of them: hazel eyes filled with cunning and lust, all of his appetites fixed on Dean, a ring of gold at the edges of his irises. _Think_ you're _still pretty open_ , Sam says, and he uses the moment of Dean's distraction to spin them, shove Dean face-first against the wall. _Did make sure you were all loose and wet and sloppy with it last night._

There's no time for Dean to respond before Sam's dropped to his knees, has Dean's cheeks spread apart and hole bared to the dank, humid air, and is eating him out again. Dean arches backwards, tries to fuck himself on Sam's tongue, says, _Just the way you like it_ , with a false show of bravado that disappears the moment Sam slides in a finger on either side of his tongue. _Fuck, Sammy, come on, wanna fuck you, gotta get inside you, it's been fucking days_.

Sam leans back on his heels, getting a deep, disappointed groan from Dean at the feeling of emptiness. Dean looks over his shoulder, knows his eyes are glittering and he's about two seconds from turning and attacking and just fucking _taking_ Sam the way he wants, a furious haze of nails and blood and come, so much come they'll both be drowning in it before Dean's satisfied. _It's been less than twelve hours_ , Sam says, and the tone of voice he's using would be enough to convince Dean that Sam's playing him, except for the colour in Sam's cheeks, the flush spreading down over his collarbones, the hungry look in his narrowed eyes. _Empty the car first, get everything set up, and I'll let you fuck me however you want._

Dean grips the base of his cock, grits his teeth for a moment. _Anything_ , he asks. Sam nods; Dean presses, says, _If I wanna do it outside_? 

_Then we'll do it outside_ , Sam says, and the only reason Dean believes him is the slight grimace of distaste that crosses Sam's mouth. 

_Prude_ , Dean teases, and swallows as he stuffs his dick back in his boxer-briefs, kicks off the jeans as a lost cause. 

Sam smiles, kicks off his jeans as well, but the little bitch isn't wearing underwear. Dean bares his teeth and Sam stands up, stands there calm as can be like his dick isn't dripping precome onto the fucking floor, isn't hard and ready for something, anything. 

Sometimes Dean just does not understand his brother. 

\--

Once the car's empty, all three of the unconscious people in the back bedroom, re-drugged and tied together before they're bound to the furniture, all of the warding done, all the salt lines lain down, dinner warming up in the oven, Sam makes good on his promise -- and even stops bitching about how he's probably getting poison ivy rashes on his ass -- _again_ , Dean -- for five minutes. 

They sleep on the couch pull-out that night, entwined in each other, deep and hard and steady.

\--

When the three in the bedroom start making noises in the morning, Dean feeds them while Sam starts painting out the summoning sigil in the living room. Breakfast's nothing fancy, just enough to keep them in some kind of health while they're continuously sedated, but they seem to think that being fed is a sign that Dean's merciful, that they might get out of this alive. 

"Sorry to disappoint, kids," Dean says, when he's already shot them up again and is leaving the bedroom, taking the dishes back to the kitchen. "But you ain't leaving here breathing. Sweet dreams while you can." 

He shuts the door on their increasingly sleepy pleas, goes back to the main area to see Sam kneeling, naked, in the middle of a summoning circle, tongue caught in his teeth as he focuses on getting the sigils exactly right. 

_Gonna meet the demon naked, too_? Dean asks. He tries to keep his tone even, balanced, but Sam must hear something because he stops, sits up, sets the paintbrush down and stretches. 

_Hadn't been planning on it_ , Sam says. _You_? 

Dean swallows down a snarl and drops the dishes into the sink with a little too much force. _No_. The room's quiet; Dean turns around to see Sam sitting cross-legged on the floor, elbows on his knees, watching Dean. _Sorry_.

Sam's lips quirk up on one side. _No, you aren't_ , he says, _but that's okay. I know how much you don't like to share._

The instant response on Dean's tongue is to snap that fucking _right_ he doesn't share, Sam is _his_ ; the second is to remind Sam that no one gets to see Sam like this unless they're Dean or about to die. They haven't talked about killing this demon but he might prove useful; Dean would hate to have to gut the thing before he can learn everything the demon has to teach. 

Instead, proud of his restraint, Dean says, _You've never been the best at that, either_.

_Didn't exactly have a great role model there, did I,_ Sam says, grinning. 

Well, shit. There's not much Dean can say to that. 

\--

Summoning circles don't generally take long for them to form; they've made enough of them over the past couple years for it to be pretty much muscle memory at this point. The sigils, though, are always more complicated, especially to summon one particular demon rather than any random demon that might be bored and willing to answer. Sam spends about an hour on each sigil and only gets through the first eleven before Dean calls it a day, takes Sam to bed. 

There are still thirteen sigils left and Sam gets to work on them first thing the next morning -- second thing, really, once he's sucked Dean through a mind-meltingly awesome orgasm. Dean putters around, checks on Sam every five seconds or so without even thinking about it, the instinct so ingrained in him to keep Sam close, in eyesight, at all times. Sam doesn't notice, though, too focused on the circle; he probably wouldn't complain even if he did realise, because Sam's the same way, head tilting the smallest amount every so often as if listening for Dean, sensing him somehow. They're both possessive, both territorial, and there's no reason in the world because they're _them_ , are so tangled up in each other that no one else could ever split them up. It's a hard habit to break, though, and one so easily given in to. 

\--

Far past sunset, Dean on the couch with his feet up, paging through the newest catalogue of knives, Sam lets out a deep breath and says, _That should be it._

Dean drops the magazine, gets up, goes over to the edge of the circle. Something about this one, either the power or the sigils, pulls at him, leaves him light-headed and dizzy. His vision's blurring but the circle looks -- it's glowing, so beautiful, the faintest sense of humming below hearing range echoing through Dean's bones. The circle bleeds and the world bleeds and everything is screaming and he's covered in it, causing it, and it's transcendent, vibrant, the only thing that matters -- no, not the only -- there should be more, there should be -- should be someone else with him, watching or helping or joining in, killing everything slow and painful and messy, basking in the contentment the circle's giving off -- so beautiful and -- 

Sam's at his side without Dean having even noticed his brother moving, wrapping an arm around Dean's waist and turning Dean away from the circle. As soon as his gaze is ripped away, Dean comes back to his senses, shakes a little, holds on to Sam as his head clears, as he catches his breath. 

_What the fuck_ , he breathes out, swallows, licks dry lips. _Sam, what the actual fuck was that_.

_Looks like you won't have any problem convincing him to take you on as an apprentice_ , Sam says, and he sounds as unsteady as Dean feels. _The circle's for Alastair but the book said it would call to any who resonated with it, with him._

Dean takes that in, asks, _Am I a demon_? because those sigils are demonic, nothing human or natural about them, and for Dean to connect to them so viscerally, shouldn't that say something about him, about what he is? 

_No_ , Sam says.

_Oh. Okay._

Dean's not sure if he should feel disappointed or not.

\--

Sam brings the discussion to a halt after that, feeds Dean stew and warm bread and pours a good deal of whiskey down his throat, tucks him in bed. 

_Y'too_ , Dean murmurs, sinking into the mattress, pulling the blankets up around his neck and burrowing between pillows. _C'mon._

_In a second_ , Sam says. _I'll be there before you know it_.

Dean mutters something that might be _Y'better_ but he's already too asleep to know for sure. 

\--

They're both showered, dressed, and fed the next morning before Sam picks up the book and says, _Okay. Ready when you are_.

Dean's been practically bouncing all morning, he's so excited; he tugs Sam to the edge of the circle -- Sam facing it and Dean with his back to it -- and says, _Okay, let's do it, I'm ready, too._

Sam smiles but he has the good sense not to laugh at Dean's eagerness. He opens the book instead, takes a deep breath, and then starts chanting. Dean can make half-sense of the words, a few of them sound vaguely Latinate and there's more than a handful of Enochian scattered in there, but he can feel the power Sam's calling up, wavers on his feet and has to lean on Sam. Sam doesn't stop, keeps going, and Dean can almost sense the rift in the fabric of space before the heat and wind of it flows over him. He waits, wants to turn around and see what's happening with every beat of his heart, but he doesn't, fixes his eyes on the far wall and lets his other senses expand. That's the only reason he hears the feet settle on the wood floor; the hole in reality repairing itself with a sub-sonic boom that Dean feels in his teeth. 

"Well, well, well," and Dean can hear something of _himself_ in that voice. It sends chills up and down his spine, waves of anxious anticipation running through him. "The Winchester brothers. What can I do for you, boy king of hell?" 

That was full of far too much mockery for Dean's taste; before Sam can stop him, he spins in place, bares his teeth at the demon. "You could start by showing him a little respect," Dean growls. 

The demon's eyes widen and it shifts on its feet, cocks its head to one side and pins all its attention on Dean. "Ah. I think I see why you summoned me. That's why you were facing away," the demon says, nothing but glee in its voice as it realises why it's here. "You got caught in it. Oh, this is _wonderful_. It's been centuries since I had a demon resonate that well, and never a human. You must be quite special, Dean Winchester." 

" _Quite_ special," Sam says, underlying the words with a curious feeling of stern power that Dean's never felt before. He's not sure if it's because Sam's never done it before or if Dean can only feel it now, this time, because of the circle and the demon standing in it. 

"Alastair," the demon says, inclining its head at Dean. "And I don't think I'm lying if I say that this is a most unexpected and delightful pleasure." 

Dean holds the demon's gaze, finally returns Alastair's smile as he says, "You know why you're here." 

Alastair nods, just once. "I believe I'm being asked to take on a pupil," he says. "And I accept." 

"Just like that?" Dean asks, suspicious. They've never had a demon just agree with them before, agree to help them or do what they were summoned to do without a bargain or a bribe. Something about this isn't normal and yet Dean feels like Alastair is being completely honest with him. 

"You don't understand your brother's future domain," Alastair says. "Hell is," and he pauses, sighs, rolls his eyes, gestures at the ceiling, every movement almost elegant in a way that screams he wears blood well, "boring, you see. Not much variety, nothing new, no _challenges_. Granted, there was a bit of a fuss after the two of you killed Azazel -- left quite a big power vacuum -- but I know what I am and I'm happy with it. Politics don't much matter to me as long as I get a regular supply of victims and instruments, so you can see how I'd be eager for something new."

Dean looks at Sam, who's looking back, acceptance and belief and willingness to follow Dean's lead on this. Dean loves his brother but there are times when the force of that takes his breath away and leaves him hollowed out and empty. He leans close, kisses Sam -- a nearly-chaste thing for the two of them -- and then turns to Alastair, squares his shoulders. "Welcome to our place, then," and the breaking of the summoning with a genuine invitation given and received shakes the cabin. 

Alastair smiles, steps out of the circle, and says, "My thanks, Dean. I believe we're going to have quite a bit of fun." 

\--

For three weeks, Dean barely sees anything of Sam. He and Alastair have spent the majority of those hours holed up together in the bedroom, taking apart the three people in there piece-by-piece. Dean's given Alastair a few new ideas but Alastair truly is a master of his art -- and it is art -- and Dean drinks down the knowledge the demon's willing to share. 

Sam's in the main room, re-did the summoning circle the day after Alastair arrived, and has been spending time with a demon who calls herself Ruby. Dean doesn't trust her, not one iota, but Sam doesn't either and Sam's not making any effort to hide it. She's got a lot of information on Sam's abilities, though, everything from what he can do to how to do it to whether he should do it; Dean nearly takes her head off for _telling_ Sam rather than offering him options and Alastair had chuckled over that for a while. The chuckles turns into full belly laughs on day seventeen, though, when Ruby says that demon blood drunk during sex is more powerful and would Sam like to try it out. It's not the offer that amuses Alastair, it's the way that Sam immediately turns her over to Dean and tells Dean to _rip her apart for thinking above her station_.

Ruby doesn't seem worried, not at first, when Alastair tells Dean to "be creative, show me what you've learnt," but she quickly learns the errors of her ways when Dean gives her a manic grin and digs in with relish. Her screams last a while, a long while, until Sam finally loses his patience with the noise and kills her as easily as he'd snuff out a candle. 

The sight of that, the casual use of that kind of power, does things to Dean that send Dean flying across the room to Sam, grabbing his brother and dragging him into the bathroom, slamming the door on Alastair's amusement in order to fucking _worship_ Sam. 

They don't come out of the bathroom for five hours. Alastair has spent the time carving Ruby's corpse to pieces to better illustrate a point about tendons to Dean. 

\--

On the twenty-first day, Alastair steps back from the bed and wipes his hands on a towel too saturated with blood to be of any help. He looks pleased and proud and satisfied -- with Dean more than himself. 

"This _has_ been fun," he says. "A shame the invitation only lasts three weeks. Feel free to call me back any time, Dean. You know how to do it now without the full circle." 

Dean should be scared because he does -- because Alastair never told him how but he somehow has this knowledge buried in the same place as lists of nerve clusters and pressure points and the jointing song. It's unnerving, sure, but also somehow reassuring. Sam enjoys the hunt, enjoys the kill just as much as Dean, but he's meant for more, meant to _be_ more, and there are times when his cold clinical style of murder makes Dean crave someone who just wants to rip and tear and bathe in blood. 

Sam's always felt guilty about that, that there are times when he's just not enough for Dean, and Dean never meant for Sam to know that, still curses the day he found out. It might be better now, though. Alastair's offer is open-ended and holds so much promise of the kind of mayhem Dean's only dreamt of. 

"Thank you," he says, means it. 

\--

They go to the living room, blood dripping on the floor behind them, and Alastair returns to the circle. Sam's fixed it up, tuned it to Alastair, and the sight of the completed circle this time doesn't wash over Dean so much as through him, calling him, tugging at him and leaving him just enough free will to resist. Alastair watches fondly, gives Dean a nod when Dean plants his feet and looks at him. 

"I don't like politics," Alastair says, turning to look at Sam. "I've never had much use for all the manipulation and conniving, and I've been lucky enough to remain neutral through the centuries. But when you take your throne, boy king, I'll march with you -- for your brother's sake." 

Dean blinks, feels his jaw drop a little; the idea that someone like Alastair would take a stand, would be willing to risk it all and support Sam because _Dean_ does, it's unnerving -- but flattering. 

Sam inclines his head, doesn't say a word, and one-by-one, the sigils start to burn, flames leaping up to surround the circle where Alastair's standing, watching Dean with a grin on his face. When the fire dies, leaving only the smell of smoke and singed wood in the air, Alastair is gone. 

Dean lets out a breath, looks at his brother. 

Sam's shoulders are relaxed, his eyes are beaming, he's trying to fight back a smile. _Good vacation_ , Sam says, half a question. 

_One of the best yet_ , Dean says. _Now come on, let's go raid the kitchen. I'm starving._

Sam laughs, gives in when Dean herds him to the kitchen table, and it's not until Dean's wrist-deep in a chicken that he realises he's not sure when the last time he fed Sam was. His hands still as he thinks, counts back the days and weighs them against the food in the fridge, the few things he'd smelled Sam cook and bake and fry, and pales. No way there was enough to keep Sam fed for three weeks, especially when Sam kept bringing _him_ food, making sure Dean had more than enough energy to keep up with the lessons. 

Fuck. God fucking _damn it_.

_It's all right_ , Sam says. _I'm fine. I've been fine. If I needed something, I would have asked. You know I'm not shy about that, no matter who's around._

_Sam, I_ , Dean says, trails off. He can't look at Sam, can't meet his brother's eyes. 

Hands circle around his waist a moment later, nose nuzzling into his neck, no care towards the blood and viscera dried and sticky on Dean's skin. _I'm fine. Dean, I'm okay. It's okay._ Sam stops there, waits until he thinks his words have maybe had a chance to get through to Dean, then says, _Not that I'm not excited about dinner. Haven't had chicken since the stew ran out. When's it gonna be ready_? 

Sam presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Dean's cheek and then dances out of Dean's reach before Dean can swat Sam. Dean turns, though, follows Sam's movement, studies the way Sam's clothes are hanging because even a few pounds lost shows up on Sam's lithe, lean frame and then his mind catches on Sam's comment: no chicken since the stew ran out? But Dean's had meat since then, he knows he has, and -- 

The vaguest shape of memories start to float to the surface of his mind: Sam coming into the room and licking blood off Dean's eyelashes; Sam reaching into the bodies after getting Dean and Alastair's approval, taking things out of the room with him; the taste of Sam's cooking, so unmistakeable now that Dean can focus on what happened, all blood-rich and bone-strong, marrow and puddings and, twice, the thinly sliced liver Dean loves that Sam only makes when he's happy -- not content, not pleased, not satisfied, but actually and sincerely _happy_.

_Dean_? Sam asks, and he takes a step closer to Dean, worry glinting in his eyes. _Okay_?

_More than_ , Dean says. He still feels guilty, probably always will feel a modicum of guilt about how this vacation turned out, how Dean actually, for the first time in his life, let the diamond-sharp focus on Sam slip into the periphery. _You didn't lose any weight_?

_Check me later_ , Sam tells him, _as close as you want. But food_ now _, Dean._

_Fine_ , Dean says, and forces back the complex glut of emotions blocking his throat -- for the moment, until he has time to separate and study them. He points the knife in his right hand at Sam, says, _And you better believe I'm gonna go over every square millimetre of you._

Sam smiles. _Promises, promises_ , and he laughs when Dean throws a chunk of chicken fat at him, misses by a mile.


End file.
